The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  She briefly considered leaving the room and curling up in one of those more comfortable chairs and sleeping longer, but a little food and drink seemed more important. She had found a nearby storeroom earlier, which still contained edible food, and returned there now to gather some and fill a pitcher with water before returning to the table and her studies, in an effort to discover if there was anything more to solve the mystery of the black staff.

  When she saw the daylight filtering through the exterior windows of the adjoining room, heralding the arrival of the sunrise, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. She really did need to sleep before continuing. She blinked away her weariness and bent over the book she was perusing. She finished the page she was on and was turning it to read the next when the wall that had vanished to admit her earlier reappeared, re-forming into a solid barrier. She stared at it in surprise for a moment, then rose and walked over to touch it. Wood-paneled stone barred her way. She tried placing her hands against the wall as she had done from the outside, pushing against the wood. She tried shifting her hands. Everything failed. The wall remained firmly in place.

  She stepped back and stared at it with a mix of rage, frustration, and fear.

  How could this be happening?

  She was trapped.

  * * *

  —

  Drisker Arc, unaware of what was happening to Tarsha, slept on and off after breaking contact, his mind and body exhausted, his sickness all-consuming. Everything continued to ache, his muscles and joints throbbing. His nausea was so severe he woke repeatedly, retching and gasping for breath, and his intense fever left his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. Even his dreams were dark and meaningless, his thoughts scattered and incoherent. He was in serious trouble and he knew it. But even his vaunted magic, when he tried to use it for healing, could not seem to lessen his suffering for more than a few moments.

  Then, on his last wakening, he found things had suddenly gotten much worse.

  Just beyond the shield he had created to protect him from predators, a monstrous insect was watching him. It wasn’t an insect the likes of which the Druid had ever encountered—even discounting its size—but looked instead like something cobbled together from parts of other bugs. It had six legs, hairy and crooked, on which its body rested. Its head was small and bent over, connected to a very long neck. Its body was bulbous and seemed to be secreting some sort of liquid.

  Drisker went very still, hoping it might not have seen him or be interested in him as food, but then it began to paw at the shield. The Druid wished he had been strong enough when he built the shield to have installed a poison or acid component, but all he could do at this point was hope the creature would lose interest and move on.

  Instead, it pushed harder, using considerable force to try to break through. Clearly it had made up its mind about whether or not Drisker was edible. Testing the shield at various points while its eyes remained fixed on the Druid, the creature finally found a place where the barrier yielded to its touch, ever so slightly. It pushed harder, and the shield gave a little more.

  Drisker waited, his magic summoned to his fingertips, ready to strike. There was nothing else he could do. When the shield gave, he would probably have only a single moment in which to damage the creature enough that it would back off. And he would have to hope that, in spite of the limitations placed on him by his sickness, it would be enough.

  Then, abruptly, the entire world beyond his shield seemed to explode in a burst of dazzling white light, followed by ash-filled smoke gathering in a lingering haze. A second explosion followed, and by now the Druid was hiding his eyes so as not to be blinded. He huddled against the wall behind the already failing shield, his body racked with pain and weakness, and waited helplessly for whatever would happen.

  When the smoke cleared, fading into the gloom, the monstrous insect was gone and Grianne Ohmsford stood in its place. She regarded Drisker for a moment, her expression unreadable, then reached out and swept his protective shield aside as if it were spiderwebbing.

  “I thought you were supposed to rescue me,” she growled, snarly and disdainful as she stared down at him with distaste. She took a step closer and wrinkled her nose. “You smell like something the cat dragged in.”

  The Druid supposed she was right.

  * * *

  —

  Still locked away in the library in Paranor, Tarsha had been reading for what must have been hours, taking time off to nap twice when her eyes grew too heavy to continue, before she finally found what she was searching for. It was further on in that second book, and she might not have found it at all if she hadn’t decided that, if anything existed about the disappearance of the black staff, it would be there. Why? Because no one else but those who were alive in the time of Grianne Ohmsford would know anything about it. She had already gone forward another four books and was looking at having to read over twenty more when she came to this conclusion.

  She went back to the only book she had found with any mention of the black staff and began searching for hidden sleeves or resewn patches of liner. Maybe here, she thought, was where the notes she needed would be hidden. But she could find nothing—no sleeves, no hidden pockets, and no evidence of tampering with the covers. So she turned back to where she had read about the staff and read through those passages again. When she came to the blank pages without finding anything new, she stopped and stared at the empty whiteness of the paper.

  Maybe she was looking at this all wrong.

  What if Grianne had torn out those pages not because she didn’t like what she had written but because she didn’t want just anyone to be able to read it—Druids included? What if she had rewritten them on the blank pages in an ink that would reappear if the right magic was summoned?

  But why would Grianne do that? What could be so important that she wanted to keep it secret from virtually everyone?

  Tarsha tried to think of something, but could not come up with a scenario in which the fate of the black staff mattered sufficiently that no one should be allowed to know of it besides Grianne.

  And there it was, right in front of her face. For whatever reason, Grianne Ohmsford had decided, as Ard Rhys, only she should know what had become of the black staff. No one but she should be able to find it again.

  Because…

  Tarsha’s mind went blank at this point. She backed away from thinking about it further, satisfied for the moment that she knew—or at least thought she knew—the explanation for the blank pages. But she would have to test her theory. If she could find a way to make the entry she assumed was there appear, she might find the answer to everything else.

  She returned to the blank pages, opening the book so the first two were revealed. Then she laid the book down in front of her, with the blank pages staring back at her. All she had to work with was the magic of the wishsong.

  Wish for it, sing for it, and it will happen.

  Those were Drisker’s words to her once upon a time, when he was explaining why it was such a powerful magic and why only those with Ohmsford blood could make use of it. This was a magic that was inherited, not learned, and while you could refine and improve your usage if you possessed it, you could never acquire it any other way.

  She hadn’t really stopped to think about this before; she had simply reacted to whichever danger threatened or whatever need surfaced, knowing that the magic would come to her aid. Long years of living with the wishsong had taught her the process, and she had quit worrying that whatever help she required might not be given.

  But this time she paused.

  If Grianne Ohmsford had sealed the page by turning the ink invisible, she was likely aware that at some point another magic user might think to defeat her efforts. So wouldn’t she have installed some sort of preventive device to make sure only she could reveal the words? Of course she would. This was Grianne Ohmsford she was talking
about.

  There could be no room for mistakes if she attempted this. A mistake might cause the pages to self-destruct.

  Tarsha leaned back in her chair, distancing herself from the book. She was exhausted all over again by now, and she needed to rest before attempting anything that involved using magic. Especially magic trying to unlock the puzzle of the blank pages.

  So she laid her head down on the table, using her crossed arms as a cushion, and she slept.

  * * *

  —

  Drisker Arc stared back at the wraithlike figure before him, his sickness sufficiently progressed he could no longer see clearly enough to be certain who he was looking at. But when she came closer and knelt beside him, he realized Weka Dart had brought the help he had been sent to find.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” he managed to gasp, his throat constricting with a mix of emotions.

  “I come because I need your help. As apparently you need mine. Neither of us will find it without the other. Let me see your face and hands.”

  He pulled back his cowl to better reveal his face and held out his hands. She took hold—her own hands rough and scabrous—then peered closely at his face.

  “Excrent poisoning, by my reading, Ard-Rhys-that-was,” she whispered. “From eating food of the sort you shouldn’t have. I will have a word with the Ulk Bog on our return. You will live, but for a while you will wish you hadn’t.”

  “I already wish that.” He coughed as his throat tightened anew. “You made short work of the insect that was coming for me. What was it?”

  “A thorax-major species. Lots of them in the world of the Jarka Ruus. No threat to me, but plenty to you. It would have made a quick meal of you had your shield not held. Impressive work for such a sick man. Now lie still.”

  She summoned a magic he did not recognize and layered it over his body. It had a suffocating feel, and he tried to break free.

  “Lie still,” she repeated sternly, holding him down. “Let it work.”

  He forced himself to accept what was being done, feeling the magic penetrate his body. When it had infused itself sufficiently that she was satisfied, she summoned another magic—this one forming a potion that coalesced tightly in the air before him, then streamed into his mouth and ran down his throat, burning all the way. He gasped and tried to spit it out, but could not manage it.

  “There now,” the Ilse Witch said quietly. “The healing will begin. Much of it will be peaceful, and you should sleep whenever you can. Just remember, in the end you will be yourself again. Or, with luck, there might even be a noticeable improvement.”

  She chuckled and rose, calling over her shoulder. A pair of slouched and craggy-faced demons came forward, their elongated arms reaching down to gather him up. He did not resist. What was the point? In his present state, he was all but helpless.

  “Don’t…be too hard on…Weka Dart,” he called over as he was being carried away. “He…did what…I asked of him. He…saved me.”

  She moved over to walk next to him. Ahead, he saw a carriage made of bones tied with ligaments and chains. A pair of creatures that resembled oxen crossed with bears were harnessed to it.

  A rolling death cart, he thought to himself. A coffin on wheels.

  “I will have to let him be for now,” she advised, smiling mostly to herself. “An Oric Clawling was lying in wait just outside our gates, and he missed seeing it. It was very nearly the end of him, but my guards managed to pull him free. Well, most of him, anyway. He might have to learn to get by with just one arm until the other regrows.”

  She turned away. “But that’s enough talking. Rest now. We have a day’s journey ahead of us.”

  Drisker closed his eyes and was asleep again immediately.

  Exhausted and drugged, he gave no thought to Tarsha Kaynin.

  * * *

  —

  Tarsha woke hungry and thirsty with no way to do anything about either. As of yesterday, she had eaten all her stores of food and drunk everything left in the pitcher. She tried repeatedly to make the wall open again—using everything from words of power in Ancient Elfish to arcane gestures, singly and in combination—but nothing helped. Then, when she could think of nothing more to try, she abandoned her efforts and went back to the Druid History with the blank pages.

  What was the key to making the contents of the page reveal themselves? What was the key to releasing the locks she had grown increasingly certain Grianne Ohmsford had placed on them? It had to be something a non-Druid would not know to do. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that it was a voice command. Writing on the pages would be destructive, and gestures were too easily misinterpreted. But words or phrases voiced—there could be no mistaking those when spoken clearly.

  So maybe a name? Someone or something most would not know about? Not something that was written in the books or commonly known from the history of the Four Lands, but something peculiar to Grianne and her time? She must have expected it would need to be accessed one day—although not necessarily by her—so, in her absence, who would she choose?

  Not necessarily a Druid, not after what had happened with Shadea and her allies. Could her own name be the key? Could Grianne possibly know she would be the one to come looking?

  “Tarsha Kaynin,” she said, although the moment the words left her mouth she felt foolish. It seemed impossible that Grianne Ohmsford would have been able to predict the future with that much accuracy.

  When nothing happened, her suspicion was confirmed.

  She ran through a litany of other possible names, including all those from the Ohmsford family and friends, but nothing worked.

  Wait a minute.

  Who would think this worth the effort? It wouldn’t be just anyone. It would be someone searching for exactly what Tarsha was searching for. And that someone would almost certainly be making this effort for the same reason she was: to find a way into the Forbidding. Because the staff didn’t appear to have any other useful purpose.

  Something about her reasoning still felt slightly off, but overall it seemed solid. So she had to think about it the way Grianne would have and settle on what words would work to unlock the hidden writings of the blank pages.

  Keep it simple. That’s what Grianne would have done. Because she had already determined at that point of her life to join the aeriads that served Mother Tanequil and would know she would not, in all likelihood, be the one to need access to her writings. But she’d want to restrict access to the right one.

  Tarsha knew almost before she finished asking the question. She had known all along, even if she hadn’t made the connection. Whoever used it would need to be an Ohmsford descendant.

  And have use of the wishsong.

  Tarsha pressed the book flat against the table in front of her, placed her hands on the pages, summoned just enough of the wishsong to reveal her heritage as an Ohmsford, and began to hum softly. After a few moments, she shifted the hum into a song, one that required only four notes, singing in Ancient Elfish, “Show me the words.”

  The pages beneath her hands rippled in response, a kind of shimmer of recognition. But still they remained blank.

  Almost, she thought, and felt a surge of excitement. Immediately she repeated the process with one small change, pouring a bit more of her magic into the process.

  “Show me the words. Reveal what is written.”

  And all at once, the pages were filled with words—everything that had been written all those years ago. In line after line, they appeared to Tarsha, traveling down the front page and moving on to those that followed until all the blank pages were full.

  Tarsha Kaynin leaned back momentarily, her face alight with immense satisfaction. She had been right. The writings on the excised pages were not destroyed, but rewritten in a way that allowed them to be concealed from all but the one whom
they were intended for. All her work at puzzling it through had been rewarded. All that remained was for her to discover what was hidden there.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself, then leaned forward and began to read.

  TEN

  THIRD DRUID ORDER, ENTRY 108/987—ARD RHYS GRIANNE OHMSFORD, CHRONICLER:

  My time of service is drawing to a close. As of this writing, my difficult and demanding tenure as Ard Rhys is almost finished. I have returned to the Four Lands. The rebellion has been quelled; the rebels are no more. Paranor is safely in the hands of those loyal Druids who have loved and cared for her. The relevant events are recorded on the preceding pages in full, and we are all looking forward to a new and better era in the years ahead.

  Yet a few final words need to be added before I can put down my pen and close this book for the last time. Not everyone will be able to read or even find what I am about to write. This entry may never again need to be seen, and I can only hope this is how events unfold. So much of what we have endured as Druids within the Four Lands has been above and beyond our darkest expectations. Still, most of what has transpired has been laid to rest for good and our hope is for a better future.

  I have been at the very heart of this discord. It is difficult for me to admit, because I have tried so hard to overcome my past and to prove my worth. Even though I was a child when I was taken and made into the creature that was loathed and feared by so many, I sought to prove that I had earned forgiveness for my transgressions and had become the person I would have been even were I not subverted by an unspeakable evil. But no explanations will suffice; no wishful thinking will help. The reality is what matters, and the reality is that, for some transgressions, there can never be forgiveness. We are all victims of our lives, and we cannot change what we do in the aftermath; we can only try to make up for it. Nor can we change the minds of all those who have come to see us as they wrongly believe us to be. Some can never forget. Some beliefs are fixed in stone.